visakhapatnam: where the humidity clings like a bad memory

so i quit. just like that. the powerpoint decks, the 'circle back,' the soul-crushing beige of a hundred airport lounges. i snapped and bought a one-way to somewhere with a name that sounded like a spell. visakhapatnam. or vizag, they call it. whatever. it's 32.1 degrees out there right now, which isn't a temperature, it's a physical attack. a wet-sack-of-cement kind of heat that soaks your shirt in five seconds flat. i just checked and it's...there right now, hope you like that kind of thing.

the plan was 'find yourself.' the reality is finding a cafe with strong enough AC to think. my first hour i got funneled into this maze of auto-rickshaws and textile stalls. the air smells like diesel, jasmine, and frying something called bonda. my skin feels like it's wearing a second, salty skin. *pressure's holding steady at 1012, someone on the weather app said, like that means anything to a body melting into the pavement. the humidity is a flat 10%, which is a joke, right? feels like 100. it's a dry heat my ass.

overheard in a chai stall: 'you came for the beaches? go to ramakrishna beach. but the beach is fine. the people watching is better.' that's the vizag vibe-all surface shimmer, everything else just below, waiting. someone told me that the real city is in the [yard number] market at dusk, not the dolphin's nose viewpoint everyone yammers about on [yelp].

if you get bored, kolkata or hyderabad are just a short drive away. as if. i can barely drive to the next street without a existential crisis in an autorickshaw. the grnd_level pressure's 946, my brain keeps whispering. what does that even do to you? makes you see ghosts in the dust? probably.

i'm holed up in a guesthouse that costs less than my usual lunch. the fan sounds like it's debating its life choices. i tried to be a digital nomad for a week. lasted two days. the bandwidth here is a myth, a rumor, a prayer. you want to post? go stand on the submarine museum jetty and hope. i heard that the wifi at the [coffee shop] by the harbor is 'mostly stable' which is code for 'sometimes.'

the city doesn't nestle. it looms. the sea level is 1012, the temp_min and temp_max are identical-a solid, unyielding 32.1. there's no relief. it's a constant. like the stare of the old man selling maps on the beach road, or the relentless blare of a temple bell at 6am. i walked the port area today. huge ships, cargo, the smell of rust and salt. felt like the only honest part of the whole operation.

i'm trying to write about the 'vibe.' what vibe? the vibe of sweating through your linen shirt while bargaining for a fake ray-ban? the vibe of a thousand years of history (buddhist sites, colonial forts) buried under a layer of neon paint and plastic? [some blog] said it's 'unspoiled.' spoilt by what? the occasional pile of garbage? the aggressive touts? the sheer, beautiful, chaotic lack of a friday-night-just-for-tourists thing? yeah. that.

maybe the 'neighbors' are the rickety buses belching smoke, the stray dogs with better naps than i'll ever have, the fishermen mending nets with hands like leather maps. if you get bored, [cities] are just a short drive away. as if boredom is the problem. the problem is the weight of the air. the problem is forgetting what your old life felt like. the problem is looking at this insane, messy, humid, glorious collision of a city and thinking...maybe this is the audit trail i needed all along.

i heard that the best prawns* are at a shack with no name near the naval dock. i heard not to swim after dark. i heard that the monsoon brings a different kind of beauty, a grey wash over everything. i'll probably believe none of it and just wander until the sweat washes the consultant out of my pores. wish me luck. or send a battery-powered fan.

visakhapatnam: where the humidity clings like a bad memory

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About the author: Tobias King

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